"The canon has opened," Dr. Doctor tells them, abandoning his notes, "to every sort of literature but one. Bad literature." The students, relaxing, snicker. Their pens and pencils stop their dutiful scratching. Beyond the window, a hundred miles from the nearest city, an unspeakably beautiful snow is falling on the Appalachian hills. "Unspeakably." That is a trope unto itself.
Pushing his spectacles up onto his forehead: "When are we going to give bad writers their day? When will we acknowledge the efforts of those voiceless thousands?" Some hung-over kid barfs sloppily onto her desktop, all orange juice and scrambled eggs. "It's art!" cries another. Dr. Doctor smiles approvingly. "Listen, son. Nothing you think matters for shit if other human beings don't like you. Willy Loman was right, you know."
